Resident traveller Sebastian Sayers enjoys the scenic routes in Weston-Super-Mare
The sheer anticipation and excitement of sand castles, arcades, piers and Punch and Judy means Mrs Sayers and I should pack extra Ritalin to keep the troops under tight military control. The destination, of course, is Weston-Super-Mare, the infamous home of the playhouse theatre, the giant pier, teenage pregnancy and more crack than one can shake a stick at.
Our home for our three night stay should have been the regal and charismatic Royal Hotel, however drama struck upon our arrival as we were dutifully informed our room was occupied by elderly northern honeymooners. After a threatening phone call and a bout of regionally explicit abuse we were able to take the room and get our heads down for the night, in preparation for an action packed weekend.
The morning started brightly, as I was treated to a seat at my wife’s consummating table, but after a light snooze I was awoken by the heavy handedness of an officer of the law, seemingly intent on roughing me up in a manner I imagine would be fit for a wild animal. Eventually I was restrained, although I did manage to get off two body shots, before I was taken kicking and screaming to the local station.
Weston beach is often mistaken for the Caribbean island of Trinidad
Apparently, and this may come as news to a lot of us, in Weston-Super-Mare the law states that a suited gentleman cannot break and enter into an occupied hotel suite, start a confrontation and then defend himself by thrusting both thumbs into his adversaries eye-sockets.
After Mrs Sayers had squandered half her inheritance on my bail, I was free to continue with the holiday. This was, of course, scant consolation for the troops who had spent the two days of my incarceration trying to raise bail by begging on the streets. However, ever the professional and family man, I duly insisted we all go to the arcades for some belated tom-foolery. Luckily for the health of one’s wallet the majority of shops and arcades were closed down or burnt out, so the troops were able to stay busy on the waterless, sullen beach by way of excrement tossing, which was civilly left from dog walkers earlier in the day.
To really get a sense of any town, there is no better substitute than speaking to the indigenous peoples, many of whom I had read spend several evenings a week driving back and forth along the beach front, like a bird of paradise’s mating call, displaying bright plumages of light from the underside of their futuristic motor vehicles.
In life, there are two things I am grateful for. One is being heir to a sickening amount of inheritance, and the second is being a writer. For the real joy of writing is knowing that in the face of any hostile predicament, one can play down the incident, and return and casually jot down one’s thoughts reprehensibly and thoughtfully. In this regard I would like to state, for the record, that Mr Steve Cunningham, the flame haired young man I encountered on Weston’s strip in my Jaguar XJ6 who bellowed profanities at me, insulted my placid, environmental style of locomotion and took grave issue with my wife’s predominant facial features should go fuck himself.
Evolution, like prison, has taught me that uttering such profanity in the heat of the moment does one no good and merely intensifies a possibly awkward situation. So Mr Cunningham, if you’re reading, you are a copper faced cunt.
Weston-Super-Mare Rating;
Sites/things to do: N/A, Scenery: N/A,
Beach: One visit, laden with excrement,
Hotel: Full of Northerners,
People/police: Primeval,
Overall 1/5.
